


the violet hour

by hollowforest



Category: Enshadowed, Kelly Creagh, Nevermore - Fandom
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Flash Fiction, Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:32:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollowforest/pseuds/hollowforest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pinfeathers whinges on to a certain someone. Mid-Enshadowed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the violet hour

Sometimes, late at night, I wonder—

What if I’d never existed?

Unravel the story, unravel memory. Let’s wind our footsteps, back back back, till you’re standing in front of me, flippant and unamused. My hand—his hand—hesitates, abruptly aware that scrawling those purple numbers on your wrist is writing history.

Those violet numbers change everything. Those numbers create me, and they form a link to you, so wind it back farther, far enough that you stay in your world, blonde, beautiful, and completely unnoticeable. You in your sphere, he in his. Living in parallel, never knowing, never touching. 

What if you’d never met?

What would Lilith have done, I wonder…? What would she do with this shell, this simulacrum that’s more human than he is, more honest than he ever will be.

I don’t hide behind lies. I wear my honesty on my face. Ugly without, hollow within, all except for this silly ribbon core.

This silly little gift, little more than a scrap left behind.

What if it was you, Isobel?

What would your shell look like? What hides inside you, clawing its way out, wishing, more than anything, for a single gasp of air?

I imagine you in purple—a color of longing, streaked wildly in your hair, dusted along your hollow cheeks and bare shoulders. No softness to this version of you, no—you’re all determination, a core of resolve lurking beneath your porcelain breast. You, dusky violet and ash pink, clothed in layers of diaphanous black cloth—oh, you would be twice as beautiful in our twilight world as you are here.

But I would not wish you there.

I would never wish you there.

It’s enough to sit vigil beside you, watching over you as you sleep. I catalogue all your sighs and frowns, the unconscious twitch of your fingers, half-curled against your face. I brush those stray hairs away like he would, if his heart still remembered you, if his heart wasn’t trapped in my chest instead.

I see your violet longing. It strains in every cell, in every frown and hitching breath. That’s the core of you, driving your resolve, fueling each step back to him. I’ll break under your feet when you find him, but I’ve always known that.

Cling to your longing, Isobel.

Never let it cleave you in half.


End file.
